Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
The fear's as bad as falling.
A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dew falls everywhere.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, to love that well which thou must leave ere long
Nothing is so common as the wish to be remarkable.(attributed to)
Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.